


a book by its cover

by indemnis



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:15:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indemnis/pseuds/indemnis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan is a lit snob and he's just moved into a new place. The new neighbour is pretty cute; too bad he's a lit pleb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a book by its cover

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt sent in by ravetimebauble on phanfic.tumblr.com:  
> "I just moved in across the street and we both sit on our porches and read at the same time everyday and you're pretty cute"

A person’s choice of reading material says a lot about their personalities, their character and their interests. They say “don’t judge a book by its cover”, but Dan is a fond believer of “judge a person by their book”.

He’s just finished sorting out his last three boxes of books—of which his younger brother had to help carry and wouldn’t stop whining about— and he plops onto the floor in the middle of his bare room, looking rather forlorn.

“Dan, everything okay here?” His mother asks, head popping out from the doorway and the brown-haired boy smiles. He’s very mellow when he’s around family; he likes to think that’s a good trait.

“Yeah. Just slightly bummed that the furniture’s not going to arrive any sooner.”

“Oh, sweetie,” his mum walks in, squatting down to reach his eye level, “they’ll be here soon, I promise. Now you can just go out onto the porch and read one of your books while I make you a cup of hot tea, okay?”

Dan smiles. “Okay.”

“What’s on the list today?”

Dan shrugs. “In the mood for a little Shakespeare. Maybe I’ll go through Hamlet again. Classic, right?”

“Sounds like a good plan. Go ahead to the porch and I’ll catch you later, alright?”

“Okay.”

Dan sifts through his messy collection of books, mostly on classics and poetry: Shakespeare, Plath, Woolf, Frost, Larkin; take your pick.

Dan is what his coursemates would call a ‘lit snob’. He is the kind of guy who judges a person on the tube because they’re reading young adult and return to his copy of _1984_ that is falling apart, yellow and brittle at the edges of the pages.

It’s the kind of occupational habit that comes with being a university student majoring in English Literature and Creative Writing. He grabs a copy of _Hamlet_ and heaves as he gets up, shuffling through their new living room and into the porch.

The small area is the only place in the house that’s pre-furbished, the only furniture of the previous house owners his parents had intentions of keeping. He lounges lazily on the beach chair that looks like it can barely withstand his weight.

His mother enters with a cup of hot tea and he cracks open _Hamlet_ , absorbing himself into the world of cruelty, blind faith and tragedy. There’s a lot of bloodshed.

He doesn’t realise he’s been reading for so long until the words start to blur and he’s reading the wrong lines that run along, Shakespeare’s language feeling like treacle refusing to flow in his mind.

It’s quiet, the small chatter of the birds, the sun is overcast, but he’s safe and tucked away beneath his roof. Dan squints when his new neighbour steps out onto his porch, stretching himself out and placing his hot beverage onto his table.

Much to his surprise, he cracks open a book as well, crossing his left leg over his right and pushes up the glasses that are perched on the bridge of his nose. He can barely see what he looks like except for his stature, his frame large and sturdy, tall and slender.

He squints very, very hard, because the sun is in his way, but he makes out the cover of the book. He recognises the cover because it appears one too many times in tube rides and in the hands of university students in the campus canteen.

_Twilight_ by Stephenie Meyer.

Dan rolls his eyes, a legitimate eye-roll, but a cloud is now overcast and he doesn’t need to squint anymore to make sure it is indeed that horrifying abomination of a book.

Dan realises that it isn’t difficult to now look at the incorrigible peasant on the opposite porch and Dan’s heart lurches forward when he sees him for the first time.

He’s cute. When Dan means cute, he means cute _cute._ He has large blue eyes, tall cheekbones and very pale skin. His eyes are the ones that absorb all of Dan’s attention and he seems to have noted the attention, because he looks up momentarily from his book and at Dan. He smiles, lines forming as he does, but Dan only finds him more attractive.

If only he didn’t have such abhorrent taste in literature.

Neighbour waves his hand slightly and just to be polite, Dan returns the greeting, smiling as he does. He’s been told he can be pretty smouldering when he smiles. People are inclined to smile along, apparently.

Dan’s mum calls out for him and he dissolves back into the house, the tall boy absolving into a long shadow at the corner of his eye.

*****

The next day Dan is getting himself more acquainted to Austen, the flow in her language and the hidden symbolism, the oppressive nature of women in the period.

He feels for the characters, heart aching and reviving at every dip and rise of the plot. It’s five. The sun is in his eye again, and the familiar frame appears before him. It’s the same wretched book, damn it. Neighbour seems to be in the first few pages of the book, so unfortunately for Dan, if he has to see him every day, he’ll have to see him stuck with this horrible book.

The neighbour has a glass of lemonade today and there’s an older lady who sticks her head onto the porch—his mother, no doubt—and they speak for a while. Dan looks intently at the way the neighbour’s faint veins pop up from his neck when he’s stretched out sideways talking to his mother.

He tries to remember to breathe.

When the neighbour turns back round from his conversation, the porch opposite is empty and he sighs outwardly. He wanted to see him again, too. Bummer.

*****

Thursday. Today the sun isn’t both of their eyes, so at five p.m., when the neighbour steps out onto his porch, Dan will never admit he’s been anticipating his presence for the whole day.

His tall frame takes up the entire space of the doorway into the porch, lean frame sliding into his chair, bright-coloured mug beside him, cracking open the same book. He’s progressing quickly—almost halfway done with it. Dan ignores the book and focusses on the way he furrows his brows, how he adjusts his black-rimmed glasses and sweeps a mop of fringe away from his eyes.

The neighbour pauses for a moment to take a sip from his mug and looks up from his book. _Shit_. Dan returns to his page, letting the words run through his vision, but never letting them settle in. Austen’s words that gnawed at his every sentiment now just look like a blurry sea of letters.

He pretends like the neighbour is quietly scrutinising his features as well, as he tries very hard to pay attention to the book, but more of wondering if his hair is set up properly, if he looks good from the angle he’s looking at him from.

He swipes his brown fringe away and looks back up from the mix of words. The neighbour has returned to his book. His mother calls out for him—dinner is ready—and he gets up from his seat, willing himself to not turn back.

It’s fortunate he doesn’t, because the neighbour is staring daggers at his back as he picks up his drink and disappears into his house, slightly disappointed that he hadn’t managed to make eye contact.

*****

He’s not supposed to develop a major crush on a YA reader. They won’t see things eye to eye, but he really is darn adorable. It is Friday and he’s here again, five p.m.; if the man knew anything about reading it wouldn’t be so much as his taste but his passion and willingness to do it.

A man who is a good and studious reader is an attractive man, at least in Dan’s books—pun intended.

Dan has course mates who do English Literature as a major and _hate_ reading, something he could never understand. He supposes he is more appalled at people who don’t like reading as opposed to people who read garbage.

Better bad than none, right?

Today the neighbour is near the end of the book, much to Dan’s relief. He hopes he redeems himself by making a wise choice the next book he reads. Maybe Dan will classify him as the “occasional YA” reader, those that unintentionally offend because of their sheer curiosity for the horrifying genre of literature.

He looks like he could be a good Orwell guy. Maybe a Murakami? Who knows, maybe even a Sophocles. Even Dan Brown’s not as bad.

He’s making concessions for the neighbour—he’s allowing _Dan Brown_ into his acceptable range? Dan is positive he’s growing a little insane now.

Today the neighbour is breezing through his book, attention sucked in completely by the entangled relationship between the supernatural and lowly mortals. Dan is slightly intrigued—of course he hasn’t read _that_ hell of a thing, but if it can make his neighbour this absorbed, maybe it’s not as bad as they say it is?

Dan on the other hand has George Orwell’s _Animal Farm_ today, but the grievances of the animals against Napoleon and Snowball fall on deaf ears. Today his attention is devoted to his lanky neighbour who is about to fall face flat into his book if he looks any closer and as the sun sets on them both, it’s another day of Dan feeling like a coward for not saying hi, and his neighbour still perched on his seat, now turning on a lamp to finish the book.

*****

Evidently his neighbour has finished his work with the horrible book, because the next day he appears with _New Moon_ by Stephenie Meyer.

_Fuck_ , Dan thinks. He’d forgotten it’s serialised.

*****

Sunday. His mother is starting to think Dan is a hermit because at exactly five p.m. every day he makes sure he’s seated right at the porch with a book and a hot drink.

She tells Dan to go out a little, get to know some new people in the neighbourhood, a suggestion that makes him tense up, because he realises that is an entirely valid excuse to talk up the man from opposite his porch.

But he just shakes his head, mellow the way he is with his family, not the cranky, waffly, take-no-shit-from-no-one Dan from university. University. It’s summer now—he wonders if the man is a university student who is on his break as well, or if he’s already graduated.

He doesn’t look that much older than Dan.

Today he doesn’t appear. Dan is in low spirits when he steps back into the house at half past six, but he won’t say a thing about his sulky mood when his parents ask him about it. His brother makes fun of him, but he just throws a pillow in his face and returns to his room.

It’s just habit, he tells himself. When things fall into a routine, a tweak in said schedule is bound to make anyone uneasy. Also, it’s Sunday. He must have a life somewhere outside of reading bad literature on his porch. People go out, hang out, unlike Dan.

He should stop thinking.

So he wonders the next morning why he’d dreamt of blue eyes and black hair.

*****

Monday. It’s a quarter to five and Dan is already set on his porch, back to _Hamlet_ today—his friend asked for some help with an essay for a summer unit, so he’s trying to get himself re-acquainted with one of his favourite Shakespeare pieces.

It’s always a pleasure to read it, whether or not he has an assignment for it.

Today Neighbour is back, almost halfway through his second book of the series. Dan is staring rather blankly in his direction, forgetting his book, as usual, when he hears a chuckle.

It’s loud and undoubtedly comes from the man opposite him, so he looks up to see him covering his mouth, looking around himself sheepishly. The book must have amused him somewhere. Dan only takes note of how his eyes pull into a line, lines bunched at their ends.

He must have been staring a little too much, because Neighbour has caught attention. When he jolts back to reality, Neighbour is gesturing to his direction, does a few actions and Dan realises he’s asking if it’s alright for him to come over to his porch and say hi.

Dan shrugs but inside he’s turning to mush. _Jesus,_ this is it. They’re about to be a meteorite crashing into land—he’s a YA reader, for God’s sake.

He’s already mapped out all of this guy’s personality traits and dreams and hopes and ideals in his mind before he does his introduction, but diplomacy is an important skill. Plus, he’ll probably need him to look after the house when his family goes on holiday. Second plus, he’s cute as hell.

The stranger with blue eyes places his book down and grabs his mug, striding across his own backyard, struggles with the short fence separating their estates, almost trips over his own feet, but he reaches Dan in one piece.

“Hello,” he says in a voice that takes Dan by surprise. He hadn’t expected something this deep and intense, but he isn’t going to complain. He drags another one of the old beach chairs and gestures to it. “Hi. Name’s Daniel. Just call me Dan.”

He’s a lot better-looking up close, too. He has broad shoulders that seem to block out most of the sunlight entering Dan’s porch, a smooth complexion, a dazzling smile. Dan finds him way too attractive for someone who reads something like _that_ , but he’s met too many pretty people who have proved themselves vacant and Dan has been spot-on so far about people according to the things they read.

He’s not like-minded with a ‘young adult’ reader. If people believe in horoscopes and lucky numbers, Dan is the kind who believes in leisure reading choices.

“My name’s Philip. Or Phil, if you like. Just thought I’d come say hi; you just moved in, huh?” Phil points to the lack of organisation in the living room, boxes strewn across every visible corner.

“Yeah. Last week, to be exact. Everything’s still quite scattered.”

Phil laughs, the way his deep voice vibrates makes Dan tense up and he wills himself to look away at how Phil seems to brighten up the space with his grin.

Pity he’s a horrible reader.

“Also because I thought you were cute, obviously,” Phil says, without beating around any bushes, without any subtlety, hidden messages. He thinks Dan is attractive. Blood rushes to his cheeks and he bites on his lower lip.

He’s not supposed to be straightforward and charming—he reads young adult, damn it? It is against everything he knows about YA readers, like finding a Taurus that isn’t stubborn, an Aquarius that isn’t weird.

Dan rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks?” he chuckles nervously and Phil’s entire stance seems to be as strung up when Dan’s muscles contract in anxiety. He doesn’t like surprises—not in an attractive and bold YA reader. They’re just not meant to be like _this_.

“Sorry, did I scare you? I just… I just say things and don’t think them through sometimes. I’ve messed up, haven’t I, God, I’m sorry, I just…”

Dan laughs and shakes his head. “No, no, I am flattered. I’m just… taken aback.”

Phil takes a drink out of his mug, one that Dan realises has the map of the Middle-earth spread over it. He points at the ceramic quietly.

“Fan of Tolkien?”

Phil shrugs. “Just the movies.”

_Oh_ , he’s one of those ‘movie adapted’ people as well. Dan feels sick in his guts from this interaction, one that is akin to an aristocrat talking to a street squatter. He doesn’t need to stoop to this.

Phil looks at Dan’s copy of _Hamlet_ and gestures to it, swallowing his sip of coffee while he’s at it. “Ew,” he says, making a face and Dan turns red, this time from taking offence instead of from being complimented.

“Excuse me?”

“Had to do this in high school. _Hamlet_? Hated it. It’s so unrealistic.”

Dan is boiling. “Yeah, like vampires and werewolves and an emotionally constipated human girl is much more realistic.”

Phil’s left eyebrow goes up immediately. “Do you have an issue with me?”

“No, merely your choice of reading.”

“What, so you’re all elitist and smart because you read some play that depicts a character that has a stick up his arse, by an author who writes and thinks as elitist as you do, because ‘thou filthy peasant, speak not, should thee not use thy language in all properness’?”

Dan slams his book shut. “How dare you.”

Phil doesn’t look as agitated as Dan is, but he’s pretty peeved, considered he really didn’t expect himself to walk all across his backyard only to be judged by this brown-haired cutie for reading something for fun.

“You know, if you’re going to come over here to condone my taste in literature, you can leave.”

Phil’s eyes are wide. “Wow, the pot calling the kettle black. Weren’t you the one who started hurling insults at my choice of reading?”

“That’s because it’s garbage, that filth that is YA.”

“Yeah, okay, I don’t need to talk to a Shakespeare snob—I’ve had enough of those in university.”

Phil strides back after picking up his drink and Dan cannot imagine how much more he could have fucked up the situation. He had one chance of talking to his cute neighbour and he started off throwing hate. What a great start.

*****

“Here to pick up your mail, Your Highness?” Phil is sour and his voice is leaking with acid, but Dan ignores him as he opens up his letter box.

“Why, can’t stand to speak to a peasant like myself, Sir?”

Dan shoots him a look. He’s sorry, okay, he’s just not capable of putting his pride down and apologising. Plus, he’ll only admit he was rude; Young Adult is still for trashy people. Phil isn’t making this apology thing any easier.

Phil opens his own letter box and pulls out a newsletter. “Oh, look, it’s my trashy teen magazine subscription! Must make your blood boil to see such horrific forms of literature lying around, huh?”

Dan almost breaks his letter box from its stand to wave it in Phil’s face, but instead opts to slam the lid shut and fume his way back home.

_Fucking hell._

*****

“What are you doing here?” Phil is by his doorway, dressed in a bright-coloured T-shirt and shorts and Dan is trying very hard not to look at his unclothed legs.

“Apologising.”

Phil looks smug, crossing his arms across his chest. “What for?”

“For being a rude twat. I’m sorry.”

Phil narrows his eyes. “Not for saying shit about someone else’s taste in literature?”

Dan raises an eyebrow. “There are only so many things you can expect of me and abandoning dignity to apologise for being an idiot is as far as I’ll go.”

Phil breathes, like he’s considering if he should forgive Dan, even if he had been equally harsh with his insults on Shakespeare and his sarcastic remarks over the next few days had been anything but easy to swallow.

“Ugh, I can’t not forgive you if you’re looking like _this_ , man.”

“Like what?” Dan doesn’t know he’s doing that smouldering thing again, gaze eager and utterance the complete opposite.

Phil mutters a ‘whatever’ and invites Dan into his house, vacant and looking very similar to his. It has nice pastel wallpaper and photographs of Phil with his family, one of him in a graduation cape and a scroll in his hands.

“Graduated?”

Phil shrugs. “Yeah, quite some time back.”

Dan is intrigued. Sure, he’d taken a gap year before starting university again, but Phil really doesn’t look like someone so much older.

“Major?”

Phil cocks an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected the other boy to be this curious. “My Bachelor or Masters?”

It’s Dan turn to cock an eyebrow. “Both?”

“Bachelor in English Language and Linguistics. Masters in Video Production.”

Dan is more surprised at the fact that Phil had done a degree in something so similar to his own—he must have become an avid reader from a long time ago then. Why then, his taste in—

“They’re very different.” Dan disrupts his own train of thought to ask.

“I have very diverse interests.”

Dan pinches his lips together. “I can tell.”

He continues to snoop, looking at his mantelpieces, his ornaments, his photographs, one of Phil in a cartoon shirt when he was really young. He had been an equally adorable child.

“Would you like a drink? Ribena? Tea? Coffee?”

“Anything’s fine, thanks.”

“Cool. I’ll just get you tea. If you’d like, my room’s upstairs, first door on the right.”

Phil ducks into the kitchen to get their beverages and Dan’s heart is in his throat. He’s going into his room? What for? What are they going to do there? What if—

“Oh, you’re still here. Why are you staring into space?” Phil passes him a mug that is of an Adventure Time character and Dan takes it gracefully.

“Nothing.”

“Then I guess I’ll just bring you up. Come along.”

Shit _shit shit?_

“It’s a bit messy. Don’t mind it.”

Dan’s eyes go immediately to his bookshelf, a disarray of books, unlike Dan’s own collection that is arranged neatly in alphabetical order. A few books catch his eye: Orwell, Murakami, Larkin, Plath, Austen, Ishiguro, Dickens, Wilde, Fitzgerald. Why, so he _is_ capable of better literature, after all.

Dan whips his head around to see Phil plop himself onto his swivel chair, placing his mug of hot tea on the desk carefully. “You have quite the collection.”

Phil shrugs. “So I have.”

In another end of his shelf are another bunch of books Dan would snivel to read: _Twilight, The Fault in Our Stars, The Hunger Games, The Maze Runner,_ a whole series of Dan Brown.

“Those are polar opposites.”

Phil shrugs again. “I have very diverse interests,” he repeats, taking two spins in his chair and stopping himself by grabbing onto the end of his desk.

“So you _aren’t_ a lit pleb.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “You really should stop classifying people for the things they read. See, while I am capable of reading the alleged ‘garbage’ that is Young Adult, I am equally abled to read your classics—I don’t see why you have to kick up a fuss.”

“Because it’s just not as good.”

“And who made you King of Literature to determine what’s good and what’s not?”

Dan falls silent, because for once he doesn’t know what the answer is. “Tell me, do you think any other language, or accent, or dialect, less than the one you speak?”

Dan hesitates, not entirely sure where this is going. “No?”

“You agree that other languages are as beautiful as English?”

“From what limited knowledge I have of them, yes.”

“Then you must also appreciate the fact that you have a limited knowledge of the genre that is Young Adult, and therefore you are not entitled to judge it for what you think it is. Also, that beauty standards are different everywhere and just because something is not beautiful to you doesn’t make it less of a thing.”

Dan is stunted because Phil makes sense that he cannot argue with and he finds himself, for the first time in a very long time, silent in an argument, weak without a rebuttal.

“I’m going to take your silence as consent because you have pride and won’t admit that I’ve hit bullseye. Just promise to never judge a book by its cover, nor a person by the book they read.”

“If you want this promise, we’re in for a long and painful process.”

Phil grins.

*****

“No.”

“Hey, you promised.”

“God, I promised I’d try and I did, for the first chapter. Then it became so cringe-worthy I gave up. I tried, alright? I’m just not a fan.”

“It’s too early to judge.”

“A book can’t be any good if it’s got a plot like _that_.”

“Open-mindedness, whatever did we say about that?”

Dan rolls his eyes. “Always accept things for the way they are, and until you’ve known the thing inside out can you shed judgement upon it.”

“So you do remember the motto.”

“You made me say it out loud five times to myself in front of your bookshelf of YA with lit scented candles. Hardly easy to forget, right?”

Phil just laughs and pushes _Twilight_ back into Dan’s hands as the younger boy groans. This is sheer torture. He’d really made a mistake, acquainting himself with Phil Lester, but it’s a little bit too late for regret now.

Dan flips through another page and rolls his eyes at the character and plot development, muttering a ‘ugh, so typical’ that Phil is quick to correct him of, but he reads.

Okay, so maybe it’s not _as_ bad as they say it is, but it’s not good, either. Phil is slouched on his bean bag, flipping through John Wyndham’s _The Chrysalids._

They are silent for a moment as they both take turns to read each other’s recommendations: Dan in pure torture and Phil just enjoying the book.

“Why do you hate Shakespeare?”

“Pretentious little arse. Just didn’t see why he found the need to create a whole new other ‘language’ to accommodate his works.”

“Why do you read Young Adult?”

Phil puts the book down to look at Dan, who’s been staring at him rather intently for quite some time now. “Just because. I get to do leisure reading, and when I leisure read, I want to read something that isn’t too confusing, doesn’t have a bunch of symbolism and literary techniques and awkward syntax. I want something close to my modern life, to remind myself that—well, maybe not vampires or werewolves—things like eternal love may be achievable in this lifetime.”

Dan scoffs. “You’re too naive.”

“And you’re too pessimistic for your own good.”

Dan shrugs, returning to the book and witness how Bella is now troubled with teenage girl problems characteristic of a female her age, frustrated and troubled by the handsome, enigmatic young male from across the canteen.

“I guess I just wanted to see how literature evolved over the years. It’s nice to see people still having an interest in the classics, like yourself, but if people progress, so do our works and our art and our literature. It's just part of who we are. What’s the point of living in the words of the past when our own generation is capable of making our own? I live in both, and enjoy both, sometimes not equally the same, but at least I can say I know them, seen our language and literary flair evolve.”

Dan looks impressed. “That’s a nice way to think of it.”

“It would be a lot easier if you subscribed to the same idea. You would like what you’re reading more.”

“And admit that the depth of fiction nowadays goes as much as an emotionally constipated, easily manipulated female character who cannot stand up for herself?”

“There you are, throwing shade again. Read it, then judge.”

*****

**Sentiments of the Fallen**

_By Dan Howell_

He betrays the trust of his noblemen, the faith they’ve put in him vanished the moment he sets eyes on the man with hair so black they tint his view.

He is no sorcerer, but the workings of the mind are manipulated by his smile, a curvature of his large blue eyes, the way lines extend from the ends of them as he smiles, his laughter boundless and filling up the room, suffocating the nobleman.

It is love, he notes, the greatest ecstasy and pain of humankind, the exhilaration that makes us human, yet the very one that hurts our very core.

He shouldn’t do this, he tells himself. It isn’t right to fall in love with a peasant, one that wallows in grime and filth as the ones above his rungs turn their faces away.

They are very different people, like the constellations have advised them of, like how their lives and personalities have been mapped out by a structure of stars, guiding them away from each other’s paths.

The nobleman is a fond believer, one who assumes things just happen because they were written in the stars. So it isn’t right, the way he stumbles down his higher rungs, into the arms of a plebeian, away from his fellow aristocrats and into the noise of commotion and sneering.

But it is there, he notes, where he belongs. In the arms of a tall, black-haired man, with reflexes as clumsy as that of a disabled animal, but the nobleman realises, that even if he were to fall from his high horse into his arms, and should the peasant fail to catch him, he would have been a willing one.

He would have been more than happy to fall prey and victim to his peasant ways, those that catch him off guard, leave him breathless, sweep him off his feet.

It is love, he notes, as he falls.

*****

Three whole days, finishing the series. Dan doesn’t admit to enjoying it, but he’ll admit that the lure of the plot had kept him up for a while, endeavouring to see it through its end.

“Do you have the verdict?”

“Mmm.”

“How is it?”

“Sucks. Still. Doesn’t get any better. But the plot is alluring, that I’ll give to you. Girls like it, what can I say? Prince Charming who likes Cinderella, pick her up to let her down, then sweep her off her feet and make her all giddy with joy in his protection again. Who can say no to that, huh?”

Phil laughs. “So you do know you’re not exactly the intended audience of this genre.”

“Evidently. But now at least I get to say I’ve read it and I think it sucks.”

Phil claps a hand on his shoulder and chortles. “You’ve got the gist of it. Now you have another series to go.” He pulls out _The Hunger Games_ trilogy and Dan groans.

*****

“Okay, this one was a lot better. I enjoyed it.”

Phil puts down his copy of _The Fault in Our Stars_ , sounding vaguely amused. “Did you, now?”

“Yeah,” Dan plops the books onto the beanbag and slides his way beside Phil. Phil’s shed has been their sacred little hangout to be nerds and talk about books and scoff at authors and various writing styles.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.” Phil shifts, picking up his mug of hot tea and staring at Dan.

“Mm?” Dan is sipping his hot chocolate, completely oblivious to what has happened. Phil looks serious. Stern, even. He notes the density of the conversation and pauses. _Uh-oh_. How has he fucked up this time?

“Ah, it’s nothing much, it’s just that…” Phil rubs at the back of his neck quietly, willing himself to breathe. It’s a little invasive, but he wants Dan to know he knows.

“I was on the Internet that day and may have stumbled across your writing blog.”

Dan turns entirely rigid. “Oh,” he says simply, but he knows what incriminating content Phil has found on his blog. It was meant to be a platform for him to vent, to spill out his creative juices and hone his creative writing skills.

Lately, a certain black-haired man has taken up the bulk of his mind, imagination, and by extension, his writing. They are vivid and passionate, all speaking of an adoration of a certain other man who strangely has large blue eyes, tall frame and broad shoulders.

“I especially liked ‘Sentiments of the Fallen’.”

Dan is completely pink, remembering each and every word he has scribed, the text turning into code in his mind. “Did you?”

Phil is smiling, like he has secrets to hide, those he wouldn’t trust himself to know. “Yeah, I did. The juxtaposition between the peasant and the nobleman was pretty good. Like tasting the forbidden fruit. I liked it.”

“Glad to know you did.” Dan wants to dig a hole in the ground and bury his face in it, but he instead opts to put it over his steaming drink and wills his throat to be burnt out by the heat, so he has an excuse to not speak.

Phil is there, still completely silent, and it is excruciating. Dan doesn’t want to know what the answer is, or if there is one at all. He likes Phil too much to deal with rejection; he still wants him as a friend. What does he want?

Dan wants to run, so he makes an excuse for himself—his mother must be looking for him, and rises from his beanbag.

Phil breaks the silence. “Can I kiss you?”

“Wha—”

Dan almost stumbles over his own legs and face flat into his beanbag, but Phil stands up and holds him by the arm immediately.

“Woah.”

“Sorry, I just… what?”

The empty mug is left on a bare coffee table and Phil is laughing, the way there is a twinkle in his eyes and it is infectious, taking Dan by storm and they look at each other for another moment before bursting into jostles of laughter.

Dan is almost out of breath when Phil winds his arm around Dan’s neck, a sensation that sends jolts in his nervous system, one that makes him tremble with anticipation. He’s always had a neck thing, but maybe it was always a thing for the wrong people.

He drops a playful and slobbery kiss on his cheek and Dan is once again aware that Phil is full of surprises, like a quirky outlier of all YA readers.

Phil is warm, his skin soft and pale as his arms curl around Dan’s girth, physical intimacy Dan hasn’t felt ever since he’d held hands with Lizzie Turner in Year 10.

It is a splutter of good feels in Dan’s chest, like the craving he’d had for the man had ceased and was replaced by a great fondness, the way his breathing is as hasty as his own, warm against the back of his ear.

Phil laughs, sending shivers down Dan’s spine.

“M’good sir, I go forth with thy heart, thus I shalt be held accountable for thy future endeavours and desires, for without thy heart, thou wilt cease function, and I thy prisoner.”

Dan won’t deny Phil sounding like a complete snob when he says this, but his heart squeezes tightly as he laughs in response.

“Aye, aye, indeed,” he whispers in an exhale as he leans back to kiss Phil on the lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am myself to a certain extent, a lit snob. Apologies for the horrifying Shakespeare. I was never good at writing it, maybe just reading.
> 
> Also inspired by Dan calling Phil a 'coffee pleb'.  
> I am on Twitter @indemnifire


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